The Fight
by Alias Gan Ainm
Summary: Our boys' camp, early morning. A fight. The wrong outcome does not bear thinking about. Who will win?


This is my third story and it is set some time after my story "Coffee". If you have not yet read it, you might want to do so first, even though "The Fight" was written as a stand-alone story. (I still have not finished some changes to my second story. It might be some time before I'll publish it here)

A big thank you to my beta reader, for your help and suggestions, but most of all for having forgotten that English is only my second language. You couldn't have paid me a greater compliment.

Disclaimer: I did not invent the boys, nor do I claim ownership. I only borrow them for a little playing and my only gain is the fun I had writing. Oh, and maybe the joy of receiving reviews?

The Fight

The sun rose on what promised to be a beautiful September day. When the light touched the leaves moving in a soft breeze, it brought out ever changing highlights of color. It should have been a morning to savor and enjoy in peaceful serenity.

Instead, the unmistakable sounds of combat rose from the campsite where two weary ex-outlaws had bedded down the previous night. No guns had been fired so far, but the fighting was fierce and the victor uncertain. The wrong outcome would cause difficulties for the two pretty good bad men.

The horses in their makeshift corral were getting restless. They were accustomed to the unusual due to the identity of their riders. Sudden charges out of town, gunfire, having saddles thrown on at all times, be it day or night, these things they had experienced and could accept, but this – this – was different. And they didn't like it at all. If the fight came any closer, they might have to flee. Why didn't someone, anyone come to calm them down?

The combatants were oblivious to the horses' discomfort. They fought on, circling each other, lunging, engaging and disengaging, both searching for, but neither able to gain, an advantage.

The noise of the fight penetrated Hannibal Heyes' stupor. Dark brown eyes popped open and closed again quickly, accompanied by a groan. Why did his head hurt so? He tried to remember. Last night, they had celebrated their latest escape. This morning? Nope, nothing. Opening his eyes again, carefully, his gaze searched for the source of the racket. As he spotted the combatants, Heyes let out another groan. He tried to move, but found himself well and truly trussed in his securely wrapped blankets. Nothing he could do to help the Kid; his friend would have to battle it out all by himself and Heyes hoped with all his heart he would win. A different outcome didn't bear thinking about.

As the fight continued, Heyes made a quick visual survey of their campsite and couldn't help wincing. The battered coffee pot and the skillet he had placed handily next to the fire last night had been flung halfway across the camp in the scuffle. The Kid's saddle had toppled over and his bedding lay strewn about. Something must have prevented the fastest gun in the West from drawing, but he seemed to have used both their boots as further missiles. Only the empty bottle of whiskey was still where Heyes remembered dropping it.

Suddenly, the opponents broke apart, eying each other suspiciously. Panting, they circled each other. Kid Curry thought desperately and muttered "Gotta win this. Heyes... Maybe if I try…?" Taking a few stumbling steps away from the horses, he dropped to his knees.

His opponent couldn't resist and charged, certain of victory. As sweet as the win would be, the fun this battle provided was even better, a real treat.

Sounds of the resumed fight drew Heyes' eyes back to the Kid who had now managed to get a hand on his opponent. The dark-haired man weighed the odds. Would size, greater reach and weight beat speed, ferocity and the secure knowledge of previous successes? If he was honest, his cousin's track record at single hand combat was not exactly encouraging, but maybe his stubbornness would pay off this once.

The Kid felt his new tactic succeeding. Once his opponent had been lured into a charge, the fastest gun in the West had spotted the opening he needed. With its accustomed lightning speed, his gun hand had shot out grabbing his adversary's throat. At the unexpected assault, his attacker froze momentarily – long enough for the Kid to swipe out the legs from under him. Hand still at the other's throat, the Kid forced his assailant onto his back. While his foe lay vulnerable, he secured the legs as well as he could. Subdued, the enemy finally surrendered, submitted to him.

Relieved, elated and spent, Kid Curry sat back to savor his victory – until the vanquished began to lick his hand.

Kid Curry grinned. "Again with the slobberin'? Don't you remember how this all started, Coffee?"

The large, dark-brown dog wagged his tail happily.


End file.
